by Tarah Benner
Conrad had decided that it would be better for them to take the longer route through Hartsel and Woodland Park rather than go through Denver. Taking Route 6 east through Lakewood and then heading south on 25 would have shaved about half an hour off their journey, but there was no convincing Conrad to take that route.
He spoke about the city in a way that sent chills down Bernie’s spine: death and disease, FEMA camps overrun with survivors, buildings packed with looters and violent criminals waiting for some unsuspecting victim to wander into their territory. Simjay had told Bernie about a similar scene in San Antonio, and she’d decided that she’d take an extra thirty-minute drive any day.
A few miles from Colorado Springs, they reached a mountain pass that wound through stunning red rock formations rising up on both sides of the highway. The grade of the road became steep and curvy, and Bernie’s skin began to tingle with excitement.
Hundreds of houses dotted the mountain to her right, and she imagined what it would have looked like all lit up on a cold winter night. Wild, rusty sandstone walls sprinkled with bright-green foliage towered above them, and Bernie lost herself in the views.
But just as they passed a sign for Manitou Springs, Conrad slammed on the brakes. Portia leaned back in the passenger seat and thrust out her hands to brace herself, but Bernie slammed into the front seat. Conrad’s tires squealed as he pressed the brake all the way to the floor.
Rocks the size of bicycle tires were scattered across the road like marbles, blocking their path on the narrow road.
Conrad swore as the vehicle ground to a halt, and they all spilled out of the van to assess the problem. Behind her, Bernie heard the squeal of another set of brakes and saw Simjay white-knuckling the steering wheel as he swerved out of the way to avoid hitting the van. He skidded to a halt mere inches from a rock, and Bernie let out a sigh of relief.
By the looks of things, highway 24 had been buried under a particularly nasty rock slide. One rock as big as a cow was balancing on the edge of a massive drop-off. It had careened across the highway and plowed into the guardrail, tearing it like a ribbon at the finish line.
“Now what?” spluttered Portia, staring through the minefield of rocks as if this was somehow Conrad’s fault.
“Is there another way through?” asked Bernie. “Should we turn back?”
Conrad shook his head. “That would take hours. This is our way through.”
Bernie groaned.
They spent the next forty-five minutes clearing a path through the fallen rocks. Bernie wasn’t much help. With her bum leg, she moved slower than everyone else, and Portia wasn’t doing much better.
Bernie was beginning to grow anxious. With every passing second, Homeland Security might be torturing Lark. She still hadn’t seen her best friend on camera, and every once in a while, her mind would wander to a very dark place.
Whenever she began contemplating the worst-case scenario, Bernie would give her head a sharp shake. She knew that she probably looked insane, but she couldn’t allow herself to give up on Lark.
Finally, they managed to roll the last boulder out of the way, and the van rumbled through the pass sounding even worse than before.
They picked up speed as they drove into the Springs. The roads there were completely deserted, which sent nervous chills down Bernie’s spine. Pieces of trash blew across the pavement like tumbleweed, and they passed a stretch of highway 24 that was lined with abandoned cars squeezed bumper to bumper along the shoulder.
They merged onto highway 25 and then turned right on 115. Along the highway, they blew past what looked like an abandoned FEMA camp. Several downed tents were being buffeted by the wind, and the dirt walkways were caked with trash. Conrad gripped the steering wheel tighter, and Bernie could see the sweat shimmering on his upper lip.
At that moment, Bernie was having a hard time picturing Conrad as the confident, unflappable air force pilot he’d once been. He looked like a scared, sickly computer nerd who rarely left the security of his mother’s basement.
Was this guy up to the mission? Or would his jitteriness blow their cover? Bernie didn’t want to send Simjay into some high-security military bunker with a man who might not be able to hold it together, but they were out of options.
After a moment, signs for NORAD and Cheyenne Mountain Complex appeared, and Bernie let out a nervous chuckle.
Portia looked back at her.
“What?” she asked, suppressing another giggle. “It’s just bizarre, isn’t it? That they have road signs to their top-secret bunker?”
“No better place to hide than in plain sight,” said Conrad.
Portia rolled her eyes, but Bernie had to agree.
Intellectually, she knew that NORAD and the Cheyenne Mountain Complex had once been intended to serve as a nerve center for the U.S. government in the event of an attack, but as far as she knew, the facility had faded into the periphery of public consciousness since the Cold War.
Conrad rolled down the window and waved to get Simjay’s attention before pulling off onto a smaller residential street called Broadmoor Bluffs Drive. The houses on either side of the street were large and imposing but hopelessly drab.
Many of them had three-car garages and big showy windows in which the owners might have displayed their expansive living rooms, pricy furniture, and towering nine-foot Christmas trees. Lawns that had once been perfectly groomed had turned brown and patchy, with invasive desert weeds springing up all around the walkways.
Conrad parked the van and began to fiddle with the laptop suspended from its holder on the dashboard. His white bony hands flew across the keys, and a moment later, the now familiar security feeds appeared on screen. He powered up his other monitors, handed Bernie a headset, and walked her through the system that would allow her to communicate with them while they were inside.
This is it, she thought to herself. There was no turning back.
A jaunty knock on the back door of the van made Bernie jump, but it was only Simjay. Conrad handed him a small flesh-colored earpiece, and Simjay fitted it into his ear. He put his finger over the device and flashed Bernie a sultry grin. “Say something dirty.”
“No!” Bernie squealed, blushing from her neck to the roots of her hair. She wanted to give Simjay a swift kick in the junk.
Deep down, she knew that flirtatiousness was just part of his personality. It hadn’t really fazed her before, but now it made her want to scream. She felt as though Simjay were messing with her, and that made her violently angry.
“Fine,” said Simjay. “I’ll just talk to you, then.” He waggled his eyebrows and put on his most overblown seductive voice. “Moist . . . juicy . . . melons. Why don’t you come over here and stroke my long . . . hard . . . blade.”
Simjay produced the CIA letter opener, and Bernie rolled her eyes. Denali hopped out of the van and lifted a leg to relieve himself against a decorative brick mailbox.
“Give me that,” said Conrad, completely oblivious to Simjay’s obnoxious game as he snatched the knife away.
Simjay stripped off his shirt, and Conrad spent several minutes securing the knife between his shoulder blades. His logic was that a knife taped along the spine was likely to be missed during a pat-down.
As Conrad taped the microphone wire to Simjay’s chest, Bernie tried not to stare at his lean, muscular back where his waist narrowed and his golden-brown skin disappeared beneath his gray slacks. Since he and Conrad would be posing as tech guys, they were both dressed in unobtrusive business clothing. Simjay was wearing a long periwinkle button-down and gray slacks, while Conrad was dressed in khakis and a moss-green polo.
Bernie rolled her eyes as Simjay unzipped his pants and secured the 3D-printed gun to a holster jammed up near his crotch. From behind, it looked as though he were adjusting his balls.
“Deep conceal, baby,” said Simjay, turning over his shoulder with an impish grin.
He definitely knew what he was doing, and that annoyed the shit out of Bernie.
Once they all had their weapons secured, Simjay grabbed the black canvas laptop bag he’d be using as a prop, and Conrad donned his ID badge.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Bernie as Simjay turned to close the van door.
The corner of Simjay’s mouth twitched, and a flirtatious sparkle flashed through his eyes. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Bernie rolled her eyes, and Simjay let out a laugh as he slammed the door behind him. Bernie held her breath as they started the engine and pulled away in the Jeep, wishing that they’d run through the plan one or two more times.
She didn’t feel at all prepared to stage a prison break at one of the most secure facilities in the world, but the plan was already underway. There was nothing to do but wait.
“What is with you two?” snapped Portia, sounding simultaneously bored and accusatory.
“What?” snapped Bernie.
They’d spent nearly ten minutes in complete silence, both of them watching the monitor that showed the road leading up to the facility.
“You and M. Night Shyamalan.”
Bernie closed her eyes, praying for patience. “So. Racist.”
“Oh, whatever,” said Portia. “I know you like him.”
“What’s there to like?” Bernie scoffed.
“Oh, cut the crap,” said Portia. “Your panties were practically melting when you two were nerding out over all the weird conspiracy shit. You want him — bad.”
“I think all those pregnancy hormones have gotten to your head,” Bernie muttered.
“What’s the big deal?” asked Portia. “You are waaaay out of Birapaar’s league. If you like him, just go for it. There’s nothing more disgusting than watching two dorks with hard-ons for each other do a fucking mating dance.”
“Aww,” said Bernie, cracking an affectionate smile. “I think there might have been a compliment buried in there somewhere.”
Portia rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just do it. I’m sure you’d freakin’ make his life.”
“Well, look at you giving friendly girlfriend advice . . . I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Can we just focus on the mission?” Portia snapped.
Bernie held up her hands in surrender. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the monitor for a second, but at that moment, she saw the Jeep winding down the road to the facility. Her pulse quickened.
Any moment now, they would either gain entry, or their cover would be blown, and everything they’d planned would be a total waste. She pictured military men in full riot gear leaping out from a ditch and surrounding the vehicle with their machine guns, but they never did. The vehicle just rolled down the road through the rugged terrain.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.
Conrad and Simjay disappeared from view, and she switched to a different feed so she could follow them up to the main tunnel.
She didn’t have access to the facility’s private radio channels, so she couldn’t hear what the guards were saying, but she guessed that someone inside Cheyenne Mountain was alerting security that a vehicle was approaching.
If Conrad was correct, they would run his plates and see that the Jeep belonged to a government contractor. If he was wrong, they’d be stopped before they even reached the main tunnel.
Suddenly, the Jeep came to a halt outside a small outbuilding. It looked almost like a visitor’s center, but there didn’t seem to be anyone manning the window. A speakerphone was mounted outside the gate, and the back of Conrad’s head appeared as he leaned out of the vehicle to say something to the person on the other end.
As he did, his chest brushed against his seatbelt, and all Bernie could hear from his wire was static.
Bernie and Portia held their breath. They were depending on Conrad’s ability to convince the guard that he and Simjay had business there.
Conrad disappeared inside the vehicle, and for nearly a minute, the Jeep didn’t move. Then the little metal arm lifted, and Simjay and Conrad drove right through. Bernie let out the breath of air she’d been holding.
The Jeep continued to inch up the mountain until it reached a tall chain-link fence. The gate slid open at once, and Conrad and Simjay drove right through.
“So far so good,” said Bernie.
They’d jumped the first hurdle, but they weren’t in yet. Conrad and Simjay still had to present identification before they could make it through security.
A few minutes later, the famous arched entryway came into view. Cheyenne Mountain Complex was written above the tunnel in neat block letters. Tall fences flanked the tunnel entrance on both sides, and there was a yellow sign warning drivers to slow down.
A second later, the Jeep drove straight into the black abyss. Bernie frantically flipped through the feeds until she saw what looked like a primitive subway tunnel stretching out over the road. The quality of the video was much worse than before, but she saw the Jeep pass through the first set of gates before disappearing into darkness.
Every couple of yards, the Jeep would fall into shadow, and she’d lose sight of the vehicle until it passed under the next set of hanging lights. Bernie’s hands were trembling on the keyboard. She couldn’t believe that their plan was working.
It was possible that the facility was just understaffed. Maybe Conrad’s name carried more clout than she’d realized. But as the Jeep drove deeper into the mountain, a small annoying voice inside Bernie began to tell her that it all seemed much too easy. Maybe the Department of Homeland Security was luring Conrad and Simjay into a trap.
Then they reached a concrete barricade, and Bernie saw something that made her insides freeze: an armed guard waving at the Jeep. He was wearing tan fatigues, black boots, and a bulletproof vest. Another guard — a woman — was standing in the shadows facing them.
The man directed Conrad to park the Jeep off to the side next to a white twelve-passenger van. Conrad stepped out of the vehicle. Simjay followed, stumbling over his own feet as he walked around the Jeep.
Conrad greeted the guards with a friendly “hello,” and the male guard asked for identification. Conrad unclipped his ID badge and handed it over as Simjay groped in his pockets for his. Conrad’s back was to the camera, so Bernie couldn’t tell whether his face betrayed his nervousness.
After a moment’s deliberation, the guards turned on their heels and led Conrad and Simjay around the barricade and down the tunnel. Bernie glanced at Portia, who looked just as relieved as she felt.
“Switch the feed!” Portia squealed as Conrad and Simjay disappeared from view.
“Right,” Bernie muttered, pounding the arrow key. But Conrad and Simjay were gone.
“Shit!” she growled, flipping through faster to get back to the beginning in case she’d missed it.
“Where are they?” yelled Portia.
If Bernie hadn’t been so anxious, she might have found Portia’s concern endearing. She acted as though she didn’t care, but Bernie knew that she did.
“Fuck,” Bernie whispered. “I lost them.”
“What do you mean you lost them?”
“I mean I can’t find —” She broke off as the back of Simjay’s head flashed across her screen. Relief flooded through her. “Never mind.”
From the looks of things, Conrad and Simjay had reached the main security station inside the facility. Conrad was talking to a tall broad-shouldered man who looked as though he was in charge. He seemed more skeptical and aggressive than the other guards had, and his brows were knitted together in suspicion.
“Nobody told me this was happening today,” said the man.
“Hmm. Well, I’m here now,” said Conrad. “And as I understand it, your system is in desperate need of an update.”
“All that stuff has to go through me,” the man grumbled. “It’s our protocol.”
“Of course, of course.”
Simjay didn’t say a word.
Maybe it was just her, but Bernie thought that he looked too shady
to be tech support. He was holding the computer bag awkwardly at his side, and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Bernie touched the side of her headset to speak. “Just relax,” she said into Simjay’s mic. “You’re doing great.”
It was a lie, but Simjay stopped fidgeting momentarily at the sound of her voice. She could still only see the back of his head, but she was hoping that he hadn’t gotten some faraway look on his face as he listened. Clearly they’d all overestimated Simjay’s ability to play spy.
Suddenly the head guard turned to Simjay, and Simjay seemed to shrink under his gaze. He began asking Simjay a series of questions: where he was from, where he’d gone to school, what computer languages he knew, and whether he’d traveled abroad in the past year. Simjay answered in stutters, and the guard’s expression gave Bernie the impression that Simjay was not acing the interrogation.
“Fuck,” Bernie muttered, watching the disaster play out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Portia let out an audible growl. “Uhh! I wish he’d just shut up!”
“I know,” Bernie moaned, zooming in on the man’s face.
Finally he seemed to reach a decision, and his subordinates closed in around Conrad and Simjay. Their voices were low and garbled, and Bernie couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“What’s happening?” Portia choked.
“I don’t know!”
As they watched, the guards marched Conrad and Simjay onto the sidewalk and down to a door that seemed to be cut into the mountain itself. They could see light shining through the long plexiglass window, but Bernie had no idea what the room was used for. Conrad had never mentioned it, and there wasn’t any sign above it to denote its purpose.
The man held the door so Conrad and Simjay could step inside, and the female guard followed. The sound from Simjay’s wire crackled and buzzed, and Bernie guessed it was the mountain blocking her signal.
Bernie couldn’t find a security feed from inside the room, but she could still see Simjay through the window. He seemed to be emptying his pockets. A second later, he held out his arms so the guards could pat him down.
